


281 - Being Bondy's BFF & Love/Hate w/ Van

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: F/M, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2019-05-24 00:31:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14944244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: Filling the prompt “a love-hate relationship with Van, lowkey they like each other but they also piss off each other and can the reader be Bondy’s friend or something.”Mini request for a scene inspired by the 7 video, i.e. Van sleeping around his guitar.





	281 - Being Bondy's BFF & Love/Hate w/ Van

“This place smells like an antique store,”

“Yeah. Home,” Bondy grunted, his teeth holding a half-smoked cigarette in a tight grip. “You gonna help with this?”

“I’m the guest… This should’ve been done before I got here,” you said, shrugging casually then leaning against the bedroom doorframe for added drama.

From where he was kneeling on the floor, attempting to put together a flatpack bed, Bondy looked up at you and gave you The Face. He meant it as a threat but it had always made you laugh. “Don’t know why I keep you around,” he mumbled.

“It’s more like I keep you around, mate. And besides, we were basically born together. You don’t even know life without me,”

“A man can dream, Y/N… If ya not gonna help do this, do you wanna go do something else useful?”

“Like what?” you asked. “I’m not cleaning this place. It’s huge. Why’d you buy a house this big? You’re never even here?”

When your lifelong friend Johnny Bond finally bought a house of his own, you weren’t sure what to expect. Catfish had been good to him; he could have put a solid deposit down on a fancy flat right in the middle of Newcastle. Part of you thought he’d buy into the novelty of marble benches and integrated tech. The other part of you expected him to buy a literal haunted house in the middle of fucking nowhere. In the end, Bondy’s place was more like option B than A.

The house was maybe a hundred years of old. There were cracks in the walls and rust on the roof. However, there was soul there too and possibly a ghost. “Something happens in the kitchen at night,” Bondy told you on the obligatory first tour. At the back of the house, leading on to all the wet rooms, you suspected the ‘something’ was just old pipes and unsealed windows. You let him dream of spooky shit though.

On the first night of your visit, both you and Bondy got way too drunk to sort out sleeping arrangements. When you passed out on the couch, Bond covered you in the quilt off his bed. He continued drinking, live streamed on his Instagram for a while, then fell asleep on the carpet next to you. In the morning, when the uncurtained windows let the harsh sunrise light in, you both dragged yourselves from sleep for coffee and toast.

Showered and mostly-coherent, you accompanied Bondy to furniture and homewares stores and laughed as he did his absolute best impression of a Real Life Adult. Returning to his place, there were enough flatpacks to deck out the second (therefore guest) bedroom. A couple of giant blue Ikea bags were dumped by the front door too.

“It’s only got one bathroom. That ain’t big,” Bondy kinda-answered, not looking up from the to-be-bed.

“Why do ya need three bedrooms though. You got a secret wife and twins I don’t know about?”

“You know about Lou,” Bondy quipped, grinning at his own joke. The boy really did love Lou.

It took a couple hours to build everything and move it into place. When the furniture was solid and still, Bondy put his hands on his hips and nodded to himself. “Yep. That’s me done. Your turn,”

“My turn what?”

“Was’ it called? Soft furnishings. Your department, love,” he said, walking from the room.

“Soft furnishings?! Nobody just casually knows that phrase!” you laughed. “Oh, what’s it called? Oh, I don’t know about any of this except I do,” you said in your Bondy voice. He refused to validate your humour, instead walked down the hall to collect the Ikea bags. “Are you makin’ me do this because I’m a girl?”

“No. I’m making you do it 'cause you picked out all the bed stuff. And 'cause you’re the one that’s gonna be using this room the most,”

“What about Lou?” you asked. Bondy just raised an eyebrow to that. You both knew that when Lou was around, they’d always find themselves in enough mayhem that they’d nearly never find beds. “Okay. What about when your mum and sisters come over?”

“Why would they want to sleep 'ere? They live close enough. Or I’d put 'em up in a fancy hotel,” he answered.

“Aw, Bond,” you cooed, dramatically leaning into him and hugging him. “You’re a softy, aren’t ya?”

That’s how it went for a couple of days. You’d not seen Bondy for a while; he’d been on tour and then on another and another. Catfish were a proper band doing proper band things. You were happy for him, but you’d never really been part of that side of his life. The guys in the band had always been his 'other friends.’ And, that super strange puppy dog person Bondy had leading the way, well, you’d always felt weird around him.

“Think you’re the only person in the world that don’t love Van,” Bondy would say, defending his friend without even meaning to. Everyone did that. Everyone loved Van more than they knew.

“It’s not like I hate him or anything. He’s just… I don’t know. Is he, like, really how he seems?”

“Yes. What you see is what you get with Van. Think he was just raised right,” Bondy replied, thinking about the inherent honesty and goodness of Van. He could still remember meeting Van, so young and faithful. Sure. Odd. Someone Bondy could easily follow on stage.

When he returned from tour, Bondy promised you a solid week of time. Maybe more. After Ikea and weed and pub crawls and jam sessions and days of catching up and laughing hard like you did when you were little kids, you felt back in your skin again. Then, Bondy got a call around quarter to ten. He was stretched out on the couch while you were attempting to spark something in the old fireplace. When his phone rang, the shrill sound cut through the music. Turning back to look at Bondy, you watched him dig his phone out from between the couch’s pillows. He looks confused, or maybe that was concern.

“Mate? What’s up?” he answered. You watched Bondy listen. It was a serious phone call. “Fuck. Are they… … Yeah… … … Yeah, fuck… Mate, I’m really sorry to… … There something I can do then?” Bondy stood up and started to nod to himself. He glanced over at you and he offered the smallest of reassuring smiles. “Mate, of course. Don’t even have to ask… … No, yeah, now. That’s fine. I’ve got Y/N here, but there’s room for everyone. Whatever you need, mate… … … Alright. Yeah… No, we’ll wait up for you… … Okay. Yep. See ya.”

“What’s wrong?” you asked, standing up.

“Funny that we were just talkin’ about Van,” Bondy answered slowly.

“We’ve been talking about everyone. That was Van? Is he alright? Is he coming here? 

"Yeah, nah, he’s fine. Uh, he’s got someone here, an uncle, that’s really sick. He’s only just found out. He’s gonna come here now. Drive through the night,” Bondy told you.

“From London?!”

“No, no. He’s in Liverpool. So, he’ll get here,” Bondy paused to check the time on his phone, “…after one, probably,”

“Okay. Why’s he coming here instead of to his uncle or family or whatever?” you asked.

“Fuck, Y/N. Didn’t ask. You heard me. I don’t know why, but give 'em a break, yeah? Never really heard him upset before. Be nice,” Bondy warned.

“I wasn’t being mean! I just meant, like… I would’ve thought he’d go straight there,”

“Yeah, well, I don’t know…”

You both stood awkwardly for a moment, thinking. Would Van want something to eat when he got there? You could bake some banana bread or something easy like that for him. Maybe weed? Some needed to be ground anyway. Or, maybe you’d go to bed; you and Van never really found comfort or ease in each other’s company before.

“I'm… gonna go have a shower,” Bondy announced suddenly.

You nodded and watched him leave. Without Bondy’s presence, the room felt colder. The record had played out during the phone call. You glanced over at the player and considered flipping the vinyl to B-side. Instead, you went to the guest room (which you had been referring to as 'your’ room) and looked around. Clothes and shopping bags were thrown all over the place. Quietly, you began to shove them all in your suitcase. Once all your stuff was in Bondy’s room, you made the guest room’s bed and turned on the little electric heater in there. Closing the door behind you, you left the room and ventured out the house’s front door and into the cold.

The night was still and silent, like the entire city had picked up their stuff too, and moved on. Guided by street lights, you walked the footpath until you found a garden with flowers you could pick from over the fence. When you had a little bunch, you returned to Bondy’s. He was still in the shower when you got home. In the kitchen, you filled a glass with water for the flowers. With all the heaviness and seriousness of a funeral, you gifted your makeshift vase and bouquet to the bedside table of the guest room.

Back in the lounge room, you continued to try to light a fire. When Bondy returned to the room, he had on jeans and a t-shirt. It made you nervous, like something bad was happening, but his bare feet and curly-wet hair helped ease your mood a little. You were always such a painfully empathetic thing, anyone on edge put you there too. If Van arrived in pain, you’d have no choice but to ache as well. You were just trying to minimise all the hurt.

Nobody said out loud, 'We’re waiting for Van,’ but you and Bondy were certainly both waiting for Van. To kill time, the mood was lightened with a couple of drinks and a Brooklyn Nine-Nine binge. At about half past one, there was a solid knock on the front door. Bondy jumped up and went to answer. You muted the television, then realised the silence was horrible. Van and Bondy walked into the room as you turned the volume down to five.

You and Van had always had a strange sort of relationship. There had been nights where you’d been okay; you’d acted like normal friends. There had been days where you’d hardly said a word to each other, despite sharing the small space of a hotel room or friend’s couch. For lack of a better cliché, it was a love/hate thing. In all your life you’d never met anyone like Van. You could easily admit that. And, in all your life you’d never been that way around anyone else. Something in Van set alight something in you; whether it was good or bad was a situational thing. You weren’t convinced he was real. 

Van had a backpack slung over his shoulder. You stood up and walked to him. He tracked your movements but failed to smile. He couldn’t even muster a fake one. Regardless, you offered a warm expression and held your hand out for his bag.

“I’ll put it in your room,” you said quietly.

For a split second, his eyebrows pulled together in confusion, but he gave you his bag with a nod. As you left the lounge room, Bondy patted Van’s back and said, “Come on, mate. Let’s get you a drink. Take a seat, yeah?”

After putting Van’s bag gently on the guest room’s bed, you returned to the boys. A third drink had been made and sat on the coffee table for you. Sitting between the table and the unused fireplace, you took the glass in both hands and held it.

“Hi,” Van directed at you then. He felt the tension in the room too but was brave enough to snap it.

“Hi,” you said back. Bondy was watching the interaction with interest. He’d always been so amused at you and Van’s frenemies routine. “I’m sorry about your uncle,”

“S'not my uncle. My dad’s uncle. Don’t know what that makes 'em to me… But, ah, yeah… I called Dad before. Apparently he’s been sick for a while but nobody told me. Figure I didn’t need to know. But I went to see 'em, Dad and Mum. Like, a surprise, you know what I mean? Got there and nobody’s home. Called and found out. They’re both down here. Said I didn’t need to come, but I was already in Liverpool, so was close enough. Didn’t tell 'em but. Will tomorrow,” Van explained. He sounded confused at his own story, like he was putting the night’s event into place in his mind. Obviously, he wanted to tell you and Bondy what happened. It had all been offered up so willingly. He was venting.

“They’ll be happy to see you,” you said when you were sure he wasn’t going to continue.

“Yeah, mate. Never seen anyone love their kid like old Bernie loves you,” Bondy added. He’d sat next to Van on the couch, offering proximity for comfort.

Van nodded, then swallowed half his drink in one go. His expression was spacey and his eyes were glazed over. All the tell-tale signs of exhaustion were there. You wanted to help, but you couldn’t work out how to.

“You know…” Bondy started. “This one has already offered you her room. We went out and bought all this fancy furniture and fuckin’ whatever, then she hears you’re comin’ and she’s just upped and moved in with me. She’s even got the heater on in there for ya, and some flowers by the bed." 

He’d done it. Bondy had figured out how to help. A sly smile crept onto Van’s face. He looked over at you and raised an eyebrow.

"Alright, firstly, fuck off,” you said, sitting up on your knees and leaning on the coffee table. The boys laughed. “I’m a good person, alright? Just doing the right thing,”

“Where’d you get flowers from?” Van asked.

There was no way of answering without digging yourself into the hole more. “Neighbours,” you said bluntly.

“She must really like you, mate,” Bondy said to Van.

“And here I was, thinkin’ that she’d not been fooled by my charms this whole time,” Van replied, grinning.

So that was it. The name of the game was Distract Van and the easy target was you. An hour later, the three of you were drunk and it was like the rest of the world didn’t exist. The shock of his family’s news wore off, and all that was left in Van was a desire to check on his parents at some point soon. He hardly knew his father’s uncle, and he was hardly a sentimental person. It didn’t take long for him to stop seeming fragile and for you to be annoyed at almost everything he said and did.

“Here, love, would'ja empty this for us?”

“What? Fuck off. You empty it,” you snapped, sliding the ashtray back across the coffee table.

“Dump it in the fireplace, Y/N,” Bondy said casually, putting his feet up on the table and sliding down, into the couch.

“No. Van can take to the bin,”

“Why would I wanna do that?” Van asked.

“Why the fuck would I?!”

“No need to raise ya voice, love,”

“Don’t 'love’ me,” you said, standing up and walking into the kitchen.

“But I do love ya! And oi! You’re going to the kitchen anyways!” Van called after you.

“NME was right! Your band is rubbish!” you yelled back. Listening to the boys giggle like children, you looked through the fridge for anything instantly edible. “John! Where’s them little custard pots gone?!”

As you stood in front of the open fridge, you listened to Bondy get off the couch and walk through to you. He stood behind you, close enough that you could feel his chest against your back.

“What are yo-Fuck!” you squealed, turning around to find Van where you expected Bondy. He smirked, then lifted his empty glass. You frowned, but it felt like a pout on your face. Pushing your way past him, Van sidestepped to stop you. “Ugh. What?”

“Nothin’. Just tryna’ get to the fridge,”

“Sure. Okay. You go this way,” you ordered, holding his arms and forcing him out of the way. Standing in the doorway between kitchen and lounge, you looked over at Bondy. He’d picked up an acoustic guitar and was strumming random notes. “Custard?”

“Huh?”

“Custard,” you repeated.

“Didn’t we eat them all when we were high the other night? Crème brûlée?”

“Fuuuuck,” you said, disappointed. The memory was coming back to you. In the haze of weed, you were sure that if you set fire to a pot of custard, it would caramalise into a Crème brûlée.

“I can make custard,” Van announced, appearing next to you and wrapping his arm around your shoulder. You naturally leant into the touch, and by the time you clocked yourself doing it, it was too late to move any differently. “Just eggs, milk… ah, sugar. Vanilla. And that thickening stuff,”

“Cornflour?”

“Yeah, love. I’ll make you some if you help?”

“Yes, guys. Make the custard, guys,” Bondy sang in a melody written on the spot. “I love the custard, guys,”

“I’m only helpin’ to get away from that,” you said, shaking Van off and walking back into the kitchen.

“Yeah, yeah, of course.”

Van could crack eggs perfectly with one hand. He said it was a skill learnt living in a bed and breakfast. You watched as he whisked 4 eggs with five cups of milk. His movement was fast and even. The swirling liquid was hypnotic to watch. “Flour,” he said, nodding to the half a cup of cornflour you’d measured out. Standing next to him, you slowly added the white powder. He kept whisking. “Vanilla. Just add what you want,” he said with a shrug. “Think I always add more than it says,”

“Same,” you replied. It was the fake vanilla essence stuff; you were surprised to find it in Bondy’s cupboard. If he had real vanilla bean you would have been really fucking shocked. Van snorted as you put at least two tablespoons of the liquid into his mixture.

“Very vanilla,” he commented.

“Like you,” you quipped.

“Ohhh, babe. How would you even know?! Never even given me a shot,” Van said, watching you pour sugar into a measuring cup. Bondy had a one cup measure and a one third measure. Only God knows where the other parts of the set went. Luckily, a third is what you needed for sweetness. Looking over at him, Van was grinning as he whisked the mix into a thick consistency.

“Add this now?” you asked, changing the subject.

“Not yet. Gotta wait 'till it’s thick,”

“Like me!” Bondy yelled from the lounge.

“Exactly like you, babe!” Van yelled back.

“How do you know how to make custard?” you asked Van. You had always thought Van looked a little out of place everywhere except the stage. Even sitting with friends, there was something about the way he moved that seemed calculated, like he was always assessing what others were doing and how he should exist around them. But, standing in front of the stovetop, whisking with an easy flick, flick, flick of the wrist, he seemed at home.

“Bed and breakfast, same as the eggs. We used to do strawberries and cream, but it was custard. Have all these pots on all the burners and I’d stand next to Dad stirring them while Mum went and served the guests. I wasn’t meant to serve because I was this scrappy kid, you know, but sometimes they’d let me and the old ladies love me,”

“Mmm. I bet,”

“Alright. Sugar please, sugar,” Van said, confident in his joke. You rolled your eyes then poured the third in. A few more whisks, then Van held a spoon up to you. You looked at him and he looked at you. “Come on,” he said, a little too quietly. Part of you was scared he’d jam the fucking spoon down your throat. You didn’t let Bondy feed you anymore because of his constant fucking about. The other part of you was afraid of how intimate it was. You were standing out of view of Bond and enveloped in the warmth coming off the stove. “Open up.”

The spoon hit your tongue with unburning heat. The vanilla was strong but Van had put in a little too much milk, and it balanced out the sweetness and the spice. You doubted that he’d done that on purpose. There was a lot of happy accidents in Van’s life. He balanced that out with hard work though. Even you could admit that about him.

You let Van gently pull the spoon out from between your lips. He watched you as you left the custard on your tongue for a second more before swallowing.

“That’s really good,” you reviewed. “Like, really good,”

“Yeah?” he replied, then tried it himself, spinning the spoon in his mouth and pulling it out clean. “I am a god.”

You laughed and moved to get bowls. “Alright, calm down, Gordon Ramsey. Here. Plate up, chef.”

Bondy had rolled a joint while the custard was made. The three of you smoked and ate and laughed. The room was warm, despite the cold outside. Even that was breaking though. As the sun emerged, the temperature was rising in teeny tiny increments. It was late in the night and early in the morning, close to four am. Bondy was on his phone, squinting at the screen. You watched him for a moment before turning to Van. He was curled up on one of the armchairs, wrapped around Bondy’s acoustic guitar. With his mismatched socks and fluffy hair, and with his hoodie riding up, putting his little belly on show, there was something entirely vulnerable about him.

“Take a fuckin’ picture, Y/N,” Bondy whispered. It startled you into defensive movement. You sat up and looked at your friend. “I’m going to bed. Night,” he said before standing up, leaning down to kiss you on the forehead, then leaving the room. He paused suddenly in the entrance to the room, glancing over at Van. “Glad you were here for him,”

“What?”

“Ah… I don’t know. ’M fuckin’ tired… Goodnight,”

“Night, Bond.”

Bondy’s bedroom door never closed; he’d left an invitation for whoever wanted to crash with him. You loved Bondy’s silent kindness. He was unassuming and went about his life in unsaid beauty. Weird beauty granted, but beauty nonetheless.

Left alone with the sleeping Van, you felt strange, like you were imposing. He looked peaceful, hugging the guitar close. He also looked awfully twisted up and you knew he’d wake to pain in his spine and neck. Slowly, you crawled over to him and sat in front of the armchair. Van’s nose twitched in the briefly. Chewing your lip nervously, you reached out and tapped the guitar’s body. The sound received no reply. Trying again resulted no differently.

“Van?” you said quietly. A small movement. His lips parted but it was hard to say if you’d caused that. “Ryan Evan McCann. Wake up,” you tried a little louder.

Van grinned. “How do you know my whole name?” he squeaked, his eyes opening to full awareness.

“Were you even asleep?” you asked, outrage evident in your voice. Van laughed. “God, you’re such a fuck. You know that?” Standing up, you went to leave the room and head to Bondy’s bed.

“Wait, Y/N. You woke me! With the guitar. I’m sorry. Come 'ere,” Van said in a hurry, sitting up and putting the guitar on the ground. You paused somewhere between Van in his armchair and the hallway. He motioned for you to return to him.

“What?” you muttered out after a moment of consideration. You took the few steps back to him.

Van looked up at you. “You don’t really hate me, do ya?”

The question took you by surprise. While you were in shock, your head started to act for you. It slowly began to shake. “No… You’re just… You annoy me sometimes,”

“You annoy me sometimes,” Van said back with a shrug. “Why do I bug you?” asked as he stood up and pulled you close to him.

You were held in place, Van’s arms around you and your cheek pressed to his hoodie-clad chest. “I don’t know… Sometimes you’re just too much of a lad, I guess,” you said. It didn’t really do justice to explaining how or why Van got under your skin. “Sometimes it just seems like everything comes easy to you,”

“It does, but… Not my fault. And I try to stay humble and all that,” Van said in his defence.

“I’m not havin’ a go. You asked,”

“I know. Wanna know why you annoy me?” He sounded way too eager to tell you why. You shrugged, which he happily accepted as a 'yes.’ “Never met anyone like you. Known you for years now. Almost as long as I’ve known John. But you’ve just never… cared. Never been horrible or anything like that, but you just… I’m just another friend of a friend or something,”

“So, I annoy you because I haven't… given you enough attention?” you asked, amused beyond belief.

“No! Aw, look, when you put it like that. But it’s not like that,”

“Sure it’s not. Wow. You’re more conceited than I thought,” you said, pushing out of his arms and laughing. You began to walk from the room, towards the warm and decorated second bedroom. Van followed.

“You thought I was conceited? I’m not at all!”

“Yeah, sure. You still gotta convince me of that one,”

“Don’t have to convince you of anythin’, love. It’s just the truth. You’re meant to believe the truth if you’re smart, see,” Van replied. You didn’t need to turn around to know he was smirking, trying to bait you into another stoush.

Snorting, you shrugged and opened the bedroom door, turning around quickly to prevent Van from entering. “What are you doing?”

“That’s my room,” he said. “They’re my flowers that you picked just for me,”

“I’m reclaiming it. Go sleep with Jonathan,” you replied.

“Nah-ah. This is the warm room. 'Sides, I’m sad, remember? Tragedy, innit,”

“Are you serious? You can’t just use that to get the warm room,”

“Think I can do what I want,” he stated matter-of-factly.

You stood in the doorway, the warm air of the bedroom on your back and the cool air of the hallway drifting in unwelcomed. Van was leaning on the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked tired but he was also a dog with a bone. You were about to bite back when Bondy’s voice echoed out of his open door.

“Jesus, Mary 'n Joseph! Can you two just fuckin’ have a proper fight or a proper fuck and shut the fuck up! It’s four in the fuckin’ morning!”

Van had to physically hold in laughter with a hand cupped over his mouth. You just shook your head and felt your cheeks tinge pink. The lights were off and the lounge’s wouldn’t reach you enough for Van to see the blush.

“Shut up. Come on,” you whispered, pulling Van in by the hoodie strings.

He closed the door behind him and compliantly followed you in. You were already barefoot and in yoga pants and a t-shirt, so didn’t need to make any stops between door and bed. You crashed into the mattress and dragged the fresh linen over your body, rolling yourself into a burrito of blanket. From inside the warm, soft, darkness, you could hear Van chuckle to himself, do something beside the bed, then climb onto the mattress beside you. The darkness got darker as Van turned the lamp off.

“Share the blanket,” he said.

“No,” you replied before the consequence of doing so was fully thought through.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn ya, babe.” Van popped the B in babe then moved fast. He was up and straddling the burrito, digging through the layers of blanket until he could get to you.

“Stop!” you squeaked, laughter coming so soon after the word that it was undermined completely.

“Shhhh, babe! You’ll make John yell at us again!” Van whisper-yelled.

He got his hands under the final layer; it was all over for you. The burrito fell apart and Van was on top of you, tickling your ribs under your shirt. Your legs kicking and thrashing, and your arms flailing about did nothing to stop Van. He was much more coordinated and a whole lot stronger than you. And, there was the fact that you weren’t really trying to escape.

You snatched Van’s wrists in your hands suddenly, almost by accident. He didn’t fight the restraints. Instead, he wriggled down to be sitting on your hips, with most of his weight on his folded legs rather than your body. Van couldn’t displace his heat though, and you were burning under him. The lack of light hid the blushing again. It hid everything. You could only make out an outline of Van. Whatever his face was doing was a mystery to you, like yours was to him.

For a second there was only the sound of your breathing, laboured under the effort of being tickled. You were going to speak to save yourself from the noise, but Van bet you to it.

“Y/N… I got a theory 'bout you,”

“What kind of theory?” you asked, still sounding breathless.

“Well, that’s just it, ain’t it? Just a theory. But, figure I’ll test it. See if it’s right or not,” Van explained. You could hear the edge of joy in his voice, conviction in whatever it was he was doing. He threaded his fingers through yours and waved your hands around above your head. It distracted you. Having him sitting on top of you was distracting. With your body going hot and tingling in more places than one, you couldn’t think fast enough to reply to him. “That a yes?” Van asked.

“Yeah,” you managed to squeak out, overwhelmed with how overwhelmed you were.

If someone had frozen the moment and pulled you from it, asking what your prediction was - you would have been able to guess what he was going to do. It had always been there, lurking in your subconscious, like it had been in his. Something in you had noticed Van from the beginning. But, fuck, the boy was frustrating. There were a bunch of things about him that grated on your nerves. There were more you liked, though. Maybe, even more you loved.

Staying absolutely still, you felt Van’s breath on your skin. He kissed your cheek first. Fairy wings light. He was there, then he was gone. When you didn’t kick him off you or laugh at the heart on his sleeve, he tried again. A kiss to the soft place between jaw and neck. You melted into the bed and the warmth in your body burned loud. Van dragged his lips along your skin until he was at your mouth, asking for permission.

It only took the tiniest of movements to lean up and into his mouth. Tiny movements can make all the difference. The difference between a sound and a note. The difference between a goal and a miss. The difference between a weird moment between friends of friends and a kiss. A kiss. That’s a movement that can be the beginning of a lot of things.

The sun came up over Newcastle. It flooded through the open door and uncurtained window of Bondy’s bedroom. He was ripped into the land of the living much earlier than he wanted to be. He rolled over in his bed and looked around for friends. Remembering the events that transpired only a few hours earlier, he smiled to himself. Yeah, he thought to himself, should’ve fuckin’ bet on them two.

Daylight would take longer to find its way to you and Van, snuggled up under the blankets. It would slip under the closed door and creep up onto the bed, allowing just enough glow to see each other by.

You woke before Van did. The lines under his eyes were still there, still stained deep blue. You reached out and gently ran a fingertip along the bridge of his nose. He stirred under your touch.

“Babe?” he mumbled, pulling the blanket up to his chin.

“Don’t start callin’ me that,” you replied. “Bond’s gonna give us so much shit,”

“Already does,” Van replied. It was barely audible. His arms snaked around you and pulled you closer. “Can I call you something else then? Baby?”

“No,”

“Sweetheart?”

“Absolutely not,” you replied. He laughed a little and gave you a squeeze. You pressed yourself into him.

For a couple of minutes neither of you spoke. You stayed close, slowly and carefully exploring each other’s morning existence. Lazy kisses. Cold toes. Yawns and tangled hair. 

Bondy’s footsteps were loud; he’d dressed and put boots on. Through the door, he yelled, “Gonna get milk. Be back in ten.” You wondered how he knew you were awake. Maybe he just said it regardless. Bondy’s started day reminded both you and Van that a world existed outside; for Van, a world that wasn’t all together nice in the immediate future.

The worry for Van was at the forefront of your mind. It easily overshadowed any concern that the morning would bring a question about what you and him meant. When you looked at him, you could see the worry for his parents wasn’t cured by new love or sex.

“Should we get up?” you asked quietly.

He looked at you, smiling with a sad tenderness. “Probably. Give Dad a call.”

You stayed curled up in the bed while Van got up and pulled his jeans on. Predicting he’d go out for a smoke while he was making his call, you finally dragged yourself up too. While you dressed, your back to Van, you sensed a growing nervousness in the room. He was making no moves to leave.

“I don’t really know what to say to him,” Van said as you turned around.

Unprepared to be an emotional crutch so soon, you hesitated. “Uh…”

“Fuck. Sorry. You don’t- Nevermind- I’m gonna go out and-” he quickly said, stopping any attempt you could make at helping.

“No, Van, it’s alright. Come here,” you consoled, stepping closer to him and reaching out. He took your hand immediately, pulling you in. “Just… I don’t know. You don’t have to say much. Just tell him you’re here and ask where they’re at,” you suggested, your tone unsure.

Van nodded, somehow comforted by your words. His phone was in his other hand and while you were wrapped around him, Van called his dad. You listened to the short conversation, hugging a little tighter each time you felt Van flinch at his father’s sadness.

Armed with a location, Van put his wallet and phone in his pocket and picked up his keys. You followed him out of the bedroom and into the lounge. Bondy had returned home and was stretched out on the couch watching morning cartoons and drinking tea.

“Friends,” he greeted, smirking through his speech. When he looked up, his smile dropped. Bondy sat up and asked, “You spoken to your folks?”

“Yeah, yeah. Just spoke to me Dad. Gonna head over there now,” Van replied.

“Alright. Don’t need to say it, mate, but you’re obviously welcome to stay as long as you need. Happy to put up any of your family too. Always loved a McCann reunion,” Bondy said, standing up.

Van smiled, nodding. “Thanks, mate.”

You watched them hug. When they separated, it was clear Van was leaving. Bondy landed back on the couch, looking around for his lighter. Van walked from the room and came to stand in the hallway, looking back into the lounge. Suddenly, you weren’t sure what you were doing. There was no darkness to hide the blush.

“Um… Did you want-” Van started.

“I can st-”

“I don’t mind if-”

“No, no, it’s fine-” you stuttered out.

“You can come,” Van finally said. The full sentence sounded so bold coming after the fragments. Bondy bit his tongue as you tried to gather yourself. “I, um, I want you to come. Need a buffer,” he added.

Before your brain could hold up any flags or ask any questions, you were nodding at Van and walking towards him. He held out his hand and you took it, lacing your fingers together and following him out the house.

“Byeeee,” Bondy called, not above humour during times of sorrow.

“Fuckin’ gobshite sometimes,” Van asserted in a whisper.

Like the gentlemen he considered himself to be and the unintentionally but habitually patronising fuck you considered him to be, Van opened the car door for you. Van had a large collection of CDs in his car; they covered the floor and spilt from the always-open glovebox. As the first notes of I Will Possess Your Heart started to play, you thought maybe you should have picked something more upbeat.

“Good choice, babe,” Van said, executing your fears.

“Told ya not to call me that,”

“That you did. My apologies…” he replied. “Darling.”

You couldn’t help it. You smiled. Van saw it. You’d never not be Darling, pronounced all drawn out and missing the G. As Van made a stupid face at you, then moved his attention back to the road, you realised what was happening. You’d read about it. Each page in each book you’d ever read flicked through your mind at a million miles an hour. Searching for the words to put your moment on page with, you thought of poems and prose and lines and hooks. Then, it was there. Each letter was so clear. Each word so prolific. F. Scott Fitzgerald had won over his love with The Other Side of Paradise. Most people preferred Gatsby, but Paradise had always been your favourite. While you drove with Van through Newcastle, nothing like the American Midwest, you still felt like you understood the book just a little bit more.

“They slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered.”


End file.
